


Something about Seeing and Being Seen (Through a Glass Darkly Remix)

by amindamazed (hophophop)



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/F, FemmeRemix 2016, Multi, Remix, Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-27 14:35:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7622395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hophophop/pseuds/amindamazed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"Is Ms Hudson gone?"</em>
</p><p>There are things Joan doesn't want to think about. There are other things Joan doesn't know how to think about. Marthe helps her with both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something about Seeing and Being Seen (Through a Glass Darkly Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PhoenixFalls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixFalls/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Your Want is Bigger Than You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2441552) by [PhoenixFalls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixFalls/pseuds/PhoenixFalls). 



> "Your Want Is Bigger Than You" features a fabulous original character that this fic spoils: I highly recommend reading that first. The OC referenced in my tags is PhoenixFall's OC from that fic, not mine.
> 
> "Your Want Is Bigger Than You" was written before season 3 started; this remix is a bit darker in tone with knowledge of what happened since but doesn't actually reference anything beyond 3x01. Both works are set during the 8 months Joan worked alone when Sherlock ran away to London, and both exist in an AU without Andrew Mittal.

Joan came home — that’s what the Brownstone still was, despite the success of her morning appointment in Chelsea — with a signed lease in hand and new resolve to make Sherlock understand once and for all what her move would and wouldn’t mean for their partnership. After everything that had happened this past week _/when it got too quiet she could still feel the gunshots reverberating inside her skull, three blasts for Jem and three more for the others No/_ she wasn’t going to budge on this. She didn’t care what he was working on now; they were going to talk.

Instead, she found Marthe sitting on the far side of the library couch, by the front window. As Joan stepped into the room, Marthe put down the oversize book she’d been reading (what looked like art history or maybe an exhibit catalog; Joan spotted a first name beginning with “M”), and laid her hands across it on her lap, one on top of the other. A small cast iron teapot sat on the ottoman pulled up as a side table, along side a tiny tray with two small handleless cups. It was not an infrequent ritual on her cleaning days; Marthe and Sherlock would have tea, and he’d badger her for information related to one of the many research projects and cold cases he always had going on the side. Ancient Greek may have been where their paths had first crossed, but in the years since he relied upon Marthe’s erudition far beyond that starting point. Joan generally kept herself scarce from those conversations, not wanting to get sucked into every single thing Sherlock worked on; she had her own interests and projects. That is, she _would_ have, or so she kept telling herself, if there were room in her life for them. She wanted to have her own projects, at least. She’d be able to do that in her own place.

Still, when she’d pass through the house and overhear Marthe’s rich voice, she did sometimes wish for some Marthe time of her own. Then she’d catch a snippet of their tea-time debate over Hungarian architecture or heirloom rose horticulture or the economic history of tin, and she just couldn’t picture how she might justify needing such particular expertise. She didn’t know where to begin with Marthe, which she supposed was just as well. She was frankly a bit wary of venturing in that direction under the all-too watchful eye of Sherlock. She had no misapprehension that he’d stay out of _their_ conversation, if she ever had tea with Marthe herself.

Maybe they would have talked a few days ago, if she hadn’t told Marthe to go home, she was fine, the MI6 doctor had said she was fine, barely a scratch on her. Not that Marthe knew about MI6 or _Le Milieu_ or anything true about where she’d been those days or what she’d seen. No one would know what happened. All Marthe knew was that she’d been held at gunpoint during a case. But Joan was perfectly capable of resting at home by herself, thank you very much Sherlock. Marthe didn’t need to waste her own morning just because he had to meet his brother and fretted over leaving a fully grown woman unchaperoned. But now Marthe was sitting in the same spot Joan had settled on that day, when she waited for Sherlock to return and restlessly searched for corroboration, some hint of evidence that any of it was real. That an international incident involving stolen information had been resolved. That three French mobsters had been gunned down around her. That an injured man was murdered on her table. That someone she’d thought was a friend betrayed her trust. _/And they died she followed a lead and they all died Stop/_

For a moment she thought maybe she’d have her chance for tea now, finding Marthe alone in the library, the house quiet around her, as if she’d been waiting there for someone to return.

“Please tell me Sherlock didn’t drag you into talking me out of getting my own apartment,” she said, craning her neck to see if he was dredging up some old gadget out of the back closet or if she could hear him downstairs in the kitchen. She turned back to Marthe, frustrated. “He expects too much. You’ve done more than enough to help. I’m sorry; he shouldn’t— He’s been even more stubborn than usual about this since…” She swallowed, willing herself to ignore _/the blood smeared on the cold cement floor, the way the table shook as she tried to staunch the wound/_. “And obviously that rudeness has rubbed off on me, coming in here and just spouting off mid-rant without even saying ‘Hi.’ How are you? Didn’t you go to a conference or something last week? I meant to ask, before everything went…” She made a circling gesture with one hand and continued without pausing for Marthe to reply. “Is Sherlock upstairs?” Joan turned away again, straining to hear.

“Won’t you come sit and have some tea, Joan?” Marthe asked, calm and a bit distant like the agents who had debriefed her, and Joan suddenly found she had trouble keeping up with her breath. She stood next to the couch, her back to the room, watching the stairwell.

“You know he didn’t even bother to listen when I finally tried to explain about moving? He just told me I was over-reacting, and then he knee-jerked himself right out of the house for a couple of hours. Hypocrite.” Joan muttered that last word, distracted by trying to pinpoint where he could be. Upstairs or down, he had to be one or the other. Must be up on the roof; that would explain why she couldn’t sense his presence inside.

“Joan.” None of the MI6 people had addressed her with such gentleness. The house was so quiet.

She bit her lower lip when it started to tremble, the sharp pain of her teeth temporarily masking the fear. After a moment, once she felt she had her face under control, she turned back carefully and forced a small smile. “I always liked that little teapot; I don’t know why I never use it,” she said, and came over to sit down in the middle of the couch. Her eyes felt hot and dry, and she couldn’t stop blinking.

~~~~~

Marthe shifted in her sleep, her elbow brushing against Joan who jerked awake with the sensation of Marchef’s unwanted hands dragging a coat over her shoulders and ghosting against her skin. She blew out slowly through her mouth and went through the familiar steps of relaxation, deliberately tensing her arms and balling her hands into tight fists for five seconds, then releasing the muscles to a count of ten.

Joan’s ability to sleep through the night had just started to come back when Manami brought her and Marthe together like two strands of molten glass in her forge. Joan was finding both attraction and the almost-as-impossible-to-believe-as-her-girlfriend-dating-a-dragon reality of that attraction being both reciprocated and fulfilled meant a new round of interrupted REM cycles. She’d been waking up every 90 minutes since the first night Marthe stayed over almost a month ago. Infatuation was distracting, distracting and exhausting, but now she was reminded of how much worse it had been six months before when an hour and a half had been a long stretch of unconsciousness. Her dreams had been filled with threats and shadows and death, and she woke each time to the jarring realization that she was on her own.

Marthe had been her anchor after Sherlock ran away, their weekly teas a comforting rhythm of connection and her voice on the phone a lodestone to point the way through those darkest nights. Once the crisis days had passed, it became confusing to parse what seemed like mixed messages, Marthe’s obvious enjoyment in her company every Saturday in contrast to her equally obvious determination to keep Joan at arms’ length. When the realization finally broke she felt terrible about the hurt Marthe had been hiding like a splinter under her skin. It was some consolation to Joan that her arrogant contempt and lack of understanding hadn’t harmed Marthe’s feelings for Manami or her delight in that relationship. And she was so grateful to Marthe all over again for not giving up on her because of it.

“Sherlock used the term ‘muse’ when he first told me about you, and half the time he says — said — things like that just to bug me, so I didn’t really know what to make of that label.” Joan picked up the cloth napkin she’d crumpled in front of her and carefully adjusted and aligned its edges, folding it into a neat square as she continued. “Sounded sort of like a life coach or something, with a focus on professional creativity?” She pressed her fingers against the folded cloth. “Then the way you described what Davis wanted with you, the walk-up and the allowance; that didn’t sound like a good situation.” Marthe shifted her gaze to the side, looking across the tea room, her mouth a tight line. Joan responded a little plaintively, “I know you don’t— I’d only just met you, but I could see he didn’t make you happy. You _told_ me you weren’t happy. I swear I didn’t assume you were involved with all your clients. I figured Davis was the exception.”

She realized she was getting off track; going on about Davis of all people…He was exactly the opposite of what she was failing to say to Marthe, and she waved her hand side to side to dismiss him. “But you’re right, I do have some…unexamined biases about how women should support themselves, and I jumped to completely unfair conclusions. And I’m so sorry about all of it. But,” and Marthe’s raised eyebrow should have been warning enough to stop right there, “I’d also say this proves my point about independence, a little: you met Mr. Glassblower when you were finally on your own. Would you have even gone to that conference, otherwise?”

“Ms.” Marthe stated, letting the “s” buzz a moment against her teeth.

“What?”

Marthe lifted her chin, a bit of pride accenting her faint blush. “Ms Glassblower. Not Mr.”

After a beat Joan closed her mouth, which then slid into a sly smile. “Really! Well, it seems I have to apologize again, for another unfounded assumption.” She pointed her finger at Marthe. “And don’t think we’re not going to come back to her! But my question remains: weren’t you open to that opportunity because you were living independently then?”

“Are _you_ more open to new things now that you’re on your own?”

Joan frowned. “It’s not the same situation.”

“Isn’t it? Seems to me you and Sherlock stumbled into becoming each other’s muses, wouldn’t you say? Did you find your time working with him limited your horizons?”

Joan’s frown deepened, and she rubbed a bent finger on her mouth for a moment. “Well, not at first, no.”

“I don’t mean to question your decision to move out, or what you’ve told me about his tendency to intrude. God knows I’ve seen him do it. But I have wondered if part of your reason for moving out was something else besides him crowding you.” Marthe paused, considering her next words. Her hand shifted slightly toward Joan’s on the ivory tablecloth for a moment before she curled her fingers under and tapped the surface twice with her knuckles before continuing.

“I didn’t like Mycroft. I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but he was rather rude when we first met, and condescending the second time, when he insisted on that little dinner with the four of us. I didn’t trust him. I know he had to have been different with you, but that only added to my concern. That he might be duplicitous.” She stopped and looked closely at Joan, eyebrows raised in question, and after a brief hesitation, Joan gave a little nod of permission for her to continue. “When you told me you’d just started seeing him right before the fire… Well, I was concerned: you clearly love your work, but you’d been talking about needing space from Sherlock, then you were assaulted and refused to talk about what happened—“ Joan flinched, and Marthe put up a mollifying hand. “No, I’m not judging you — and then you suddenly wanted to get close to Sherlock’s brother, with whom he had a rather volatile relationship. Once Sherlock left,” and she shook her head with closed eyes in disgust at that, “once he was gone so soon after Mycroft, this was a moot point, perhaps, but up until all those upheavals, it seemed to me that your decision to move was based in fear.”

“Fear.” Joan repeated coldly, and she shifted back in her seat, bringing her water glass up for a sip.

Marthe was resolute now. “Up until then, just before Mycroft showed up, your work relationship had been going well. Very well. Perhaps…too well?”

“What, you think I was afraid of success?”

“Of commitment.” Marthe leaned forward, trying to catch her eye. “As I said, you and Sherlock had a rare connection. It was clear to everyone. Even Sherlock spoke of it to me, more than once.” Joan blinked at that. “As a surgeon leading a team in an operating room, you wouldn’t have formed partnerships like that, I imagine. And your connection to clients as a sober companion was designed to be temporary, with a clearly defined timeframe. So this, with Sherlock; it was unexpected, wasn’t it? And I think, perhaps, when it became clear there was no end in sight, that scared you.” Marthe tentatively extended her hand to give Joan a gentle pat on her wrist, and then sat back herself. “So you took a step back. That’s all right. It wasn’t your fault that the floor suddenly collapsed from under you. You didn’t make any of those bad things happen. But the chaos also made it easier to ignore what you were afraid of, before. I think it’s still there, Joan.”

They both sat quietly for some minutes, Marthe looking composed and calm; Joan feeling much less so. Eventually she picked up the teapot and refilled her cup halfway, then tipped the spout toward Marthe’s cup to empty the pot. The tea had cooled but was still pleasant at that temperature, soothing on Joan’s tongue.

“All right?” Marthe asked, quietly.

“All right. I think— You’re probably not wrong? I just…”

“It’s a lot to think about.”

“Hmm.” She took another sip of her tea and then abruptly pulled it away from her mouth. “Wait, you still need to tell me about your glassblower!” and Marthe dipped her head with another blush and the happiest smile Joan had seen all afternoon.

~~~~~

Marthe shifted in bed again, rolling onto her side to spoon up behind her, her touch bringing Joan’s thoughts forward to a month ago when she’d seen that bashful pleasure expressed again, this time for her. It had been a day of wonders, her first dragon and her first kiss with Marthe. Joan had to admit the one was an effective deflection of the other; once she and Marthe had reached the understanding Manami had orchestrated for them, they were preoccupied enough by each other for Manami to slip away to her studio and work in peace for the rest of the afternoon. Just before sunset, she’d suddenly belched a torrent of flame loud enough to make even Marthe jump, her gasp warm against Joan’s ear, and Joan took that as her cue to depart.

The back door was still propped open from earlier in the day, so Joan left that way to say goodbye to Manami, who nodded in approval. “I think this arrangement will work very well,” she said, still in her dragon form, her consonants subtly shifted by the shape of that mouth. Or was it the effect of fire on her larynx that altered her voice? A question for another time, Joan scolded herself, although she had the impression from what she thought was a smirk that Manami had already read that curiosity on her face. Joan hadn’t asked about telepathic abilities when she had the chance, she thought ruefully. More probable it was simply centuries of interacting with humans that had honed Manami’s ability to interpret and predict. Joan just nodded and murmured, “Good night.”

It struck her all of a sudden at the bus stop, that it was a bit shocking how quickly she’d acclimated to a rather dramatic turn of events. She was suddenly dating Marthe — that was remarkable enough all on its own merits — even though Marthe was living with someone else. Who was not only perfectly fine with it but set them up in the first place. And she just happened to be a half-Venetian — Joan started to giggle — not to be confused with the rather appropriate Venerian — a loud laugh burst out, and then she stopped trying to hold it in. A half-Venetian five-hundred year-old glassblowing dragon. Joan’s laughter had a frantic edge that she hid behind a fake cough when an elderly couple gave her an anxious glance or two as they slowly walked down the block arm-in-arm.

She quieted, watching them. All at once the slight tilt to the man’s grizzled close-cropped head reminded her painfully of Sherlock and the future Marthe had helped her realize she’d been terrified to lose. And lost anyway. She’d been right to fear a commitment that couldn’t hold; it had been terrible to learn he’d broken it; it almost broke her. Then she tried so hard to put it behind her, until Marthe had come forward to lead her back through the wreckage and out the other side. And what wonders there were to see in this unexpected new world! She felt that laughter bubbling inside again, contained now, and energizing. A dragon! She shook her head, not even trying to squelch her enormous grin. The bus pulled around the corner at the far end of the block just as her phone buzzed, and she pulled it out of her bag with one hand while fishing in her pocket for her pass with the other. A text from Marthe, _Let me know when you’re home safely. I so look forward to seeing you tomorrow evening._ And another, as she finished reading. _Manami is laughing at me but she seems almost as pleased as I. I am so very pleased, Joan._ A dragon, and an afternoon of Marthe’s soft lips teasing her own, her hands and arms holding Joan close.

Joan pushed herself back into the curve of Marthe’s body, pulling Marthe’s arm over and around where Joan could clasp her fingers and press Marthe’s palm against her own ribs, erasing the nightmare echoes of Marchef’s threatening grip. Marthe murmured indistinctly across the top of Joan’s head and let her thumb trace lightly against the underside of Joan’s breast. A soothing caress rather than an arousing one, and Joan eased into the sensation, and down into sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Like the title of the original work, this title comes from Catherynne Valente's poem "[What the Dragon Said: A Love Story](http://www.tor.com/stories/2012/04/what-the-dragon-said-a-love-story)."
> 
> This piece was also inspired by [venusinthenight'](http://archiveofourown.org/users/venusinthenight/profile)s summer 2016 Holmestice request for the cut scene between Joan and Ms Hudson from 2x23.
> 
> Thanks very much to [language-escapes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/language_escapes/profile) for last minute beta!


End file.
